Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “She knew the store.”

  “She knew the product, the staff, what time and day was best, when the guard would be gone. It was like I told her, you owe me, I owe him. He saved my blood, that’s the way it goes. It was simple. All debts paid in full.”

  “She paid with her life and my wife is missing.”

  “So much in this world we can’t control.”

  “Where are they? Who are they?”

  “Let your police friends know I did my civic duty and helped you.”

  When they returned to the Mission the car slowed. Caesar’s eyes scanned the streets with an intensity that never betrayed if he was the hunter or the prey. Reed figured something was up with Caesar’s call, the one that had spared him. Caesar was searching the night for something, growing impatient. He spoke quietly in Spanish to his crew.

  “We’re going to let you out.”

  “But you never told me their names, where they’re headed.”

  “That’s up to you. You found me, you find them, and maybe you’ll find your wife.” Caesar said something in Spanish and his crew laughed. “Maybe. She might even be alive, eh?”

  Tires screeched, sirens yelped, and in a heartbeat the sedan was boxed in by unmarked cars and armed police officers. Weapons drawn. Lights pulsating. A bullhorn crackled.

  “This is the San Francisco Police Department. Shut the engine off, drop the keys to the street, and step away from the vehicle with your hands raised.”

  Caesar grabbed Reed, put his arm around his neck and his gun to his head as he cursed in Spanish, glaring defiantly at the officers locked on to him from behind their shotguns and Berettas.

  “You are a dead man,” Caesar whispered before releasing Reed.

  Police ordered the passengers from the car.

  “I had nothing to do with this.”

  “And your wife?” Caesar chuckled. “You better pray she’s dead.”

  Reed said nothing.

  “Because after what they did to Carrie, death would be a comfort.”

  Before Caesar dropped his gun, opened his door, and allowed himself to be yanked to the pavement and handcuffed, he spat in Reed’s face.

  FORTY-ONE

  Reed ordered coffee at an all-night diner near San Francisco General. Sydowski finished his telephone call, then stared at him for the longest time.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Tom.”

  Caesar was being held at the Hall of Justice. Reed looked into the night. He wasn’t shaking as much now.

  “You’ve got to let us do our job. We were on him. He knows the suspects. Valdosa was primed to leverage him. Now he’s gone mute and called a lawyer. It’s going to be difficult for us to pull anything from him.”

  Reed swallowed.

  “Tom, you’ve got to try and stay in control. Keep your emotions in check and let us do the investigating.”

  “Are you any closer to knowing who took Ann and where they went?”

  Sydowski considered what he should reveal.

  “We’re working on a lot of things.”

  “What about Carrie Addison’s apartment?”

  “We’re still going through everything. Tom, you’ve got to let people do their job.”

  “I tried that and a reporter came to my door and told me the headless corpse in the desert was Ann.”

  “Tom—”

  “I tried letting people do their job and was left to make funeral plans for a woman no one has found.”

  “Tom, stop it. You should get some sleep.”

  “I tried that and all I see is my wife’s face, hear her voice, and feel my gut telling me that there’s nothing to prove she’s dead.”

  “Tom, you’ve got to stay out of this.”

  “Why? Every word is true. I got more help from a drug dealer than from the police.”

  “Tom, I’ve taken you deeper into this case than I’ve ever taken anyone into any investigation.” Sydowki popped a Tums. “I really think you should go home and be with Zach.”

  “He wants me to find his mother, Walt.”

  “Tom, it’s dangerous for you to get involved like this.”

  “You think I’m going to sit at home and do nothing knowing she’s still out there and that there’s every chance she’s alive?”

  “But you can’t go round conducting a one-man investigation that’s driven by anguish. It can only end badly, like it almost did tonight.”

  Reed was exhausted.

  “I’ll tell you a story, Walt. A few years ago, Ann had read some book about a guy searching for his missing wife. The guy’s relentless against all odds. He never gives up. A few days after she’d finished, she tells me about it and says, if that ever happens to us promise me you’ll never stop searching for me. So I tease her and say I’ll just have to start dating again. Later that night she wakes me. She’s had a bad dream from the book and this time she’s serious that I promise her that I would never stop searching for her. I mean she’s crying. So I make a promise and she falls asleep in my arms.”

  Reed gazed out at the night.

  “But I never kept it. Until now, I never started searching for her and no one, not you, or the people who took her, will stop me. No matter what has happened to Ann, I’ll find her and bring her home.”

  Sydowski nodded, then checked his watch.

  “I have to get to the Hall, Tom. One of the uniforms will drive you to your house.”

  At home that night, Reed looked in on Zach, who was asleep in their bed. Doris had fallen asleep on the sofa. He covered her with a blanket, then went to his study to think about his encounter with Caesar, pushing aside the fact of how close he’d come to the edge.

  Noticing the enhanced police tape, he slipped on headphones and set it to play. Ann’s voice vibrated against his eardrum.

  “Oh God, please let me go!”

  Then the suspects’ voices.

  “I told you to shut up! Where’s your car! I told you to shut up!”

  It played over and over. Reed was certain he’d heard that voice before.

  “I told you to shut...”

  He was sure of it Folsom. Jorge went to Folsom.

  “I told you to...”

  He was falling asleep with the tape running, voices swirling in his brain.

  I told you. I told you. I told you.

  Folsom.

  FORTY-TWO

  Somewhere in America, Ann Reed sat motionless in a motel room.

  John sat on one of the queen-size beds watching her.

  She was bound to a hard-backed chair with quarter-inch yellow nylon rope. Duct tape masked her mouth and bound her wrists.

  Ann kept her eyes on John's right hand, the one holding the large pair of scissors. His thick thumb caressed the blades while he studied her face.

  Please don’t hurt me.

  She was still groggy from the driving.

  They must’ve put something in her soda to make her sleep. She had no idea where they were today. She tried hard to find details that might save her but each motel, each cabin, each horrible second, was the same. They always removed the phones and any information identifying their location. They kept her bound and gagged, careful to kill any hope she had of escaping; leaving her to live in terror, never knowing what they intended to do at any moment. Like now.

  Why was he holding the scissors and staring at her? Del was gone. Likely to get food. It was the routine. Ann never felt she was any safer alone with John. He stood and approached her.

  She held her breath as he raised the scissors to her head.

  “Don’t move.”

  The comb in his left hand bit into her silky hair and offered a bouquet of it to the scissors, which began their work. Her locks fell like large snowflakes on her shoulders, her top, her lap, to the green plastic trash bags John had slit open and arranged like a drop sheet underneath the chair. Ann’s beautiful jaw-length hair was sliced away above her ears; then he hacked at her bangs. Her eyes stung at the violation. When he finish
ed he brushed the cuttings from her face with a towel. She felt naked. Smaller. Less than what she was.

  “Be still.”

  He lifted her, chair and all, biceps bulging his tattoos as he carried her easily to the bathroom where he placed her in the large shower stall.

  He fashioned a hair salon type of apron out of the plastic bags that allowed her head to poke through but was snug around her neck. He produced a large drugstore bag from which he withdrew bleach, a quick-hair-dye kit, latex gloves, vaseline, shampoo, tub and tile cleanser, and several other items.

  Ann glimpsed the packaging as John worked on her hair. Sunset Blond. Blondes Have More Fun. The picture on the box showed blond tanned twenty-some-things frolicking in thongs at a volleyball net near the beach. Ammonia vapors invaded her nostrils.

  When he finished, John cleaned everything up, stuffing it into a trash bag. Then he cut Ann’s bindings, startling her when he sliced off her clothes, leaving her in her bra and panties. He indicated the travel bag of women’s clothes. “Shower, shampoo, scrub the stall clean of any dye. Dress in fresh clothes and hurry up.”

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  Ann was numb, degraded as she carried out his orders, sobbing in the shower, feeling for hair that had been replaced by chopped straw, refusing to face the reality, dreading to see the truth as she scrubbed at the walls, the floor, the water spray mingling with her tears.

  After dressing in capri pants and a T-shirt she forced herself to confront the mirror. She wiped the steam clouds and was hit full force with what had befallen her. She no longer saw herself. Short blond stalks replaced her brunette waves. Fear lines cut like furrows into her skin. Tears spilled from her bloodshot eyes.

  Who was this woman? This specter?

  Ann Reed was gone. Dead to the world. They had obliterated her identity. Just as they did with the dead woman whose clothes Ann was now wearing. How much longer before they put her in a shallow grave?

  God. Please help me. Ann covered her mouth with her hands. Oh, Tom. Oh, Zachary.

  John called Ann several times before she emerged from the bathroom. He regarded her the way an artist regards a finished painting.

  “Here.” He reached into his breast pocket. “Put these on.”

  Sunglasses. Dark, non-reflective in the style of movie stars from the 1940s and ’50s. Ann slipped them on and sat stone faced in the chair. Everything had been cleaned up and cleared away. The air conditioner hummed as John sat on the bed staring at her. Satisfied with his work. Twenty minutes later Del returned with bags of food that smelled like deep-fried chicken. He stopped dead in his tracks.

  Ann was identical to the woman in the color snapshot John had kept in his cell at Folsom.

  The picture of his wife.

  FORTY-THREE

  Retired cable car gripman Jed Caverly waved to his neighbor the morning after he returned from his trip to Europe. He stepped outside to take stock of his tidy bungalow in the southern San Francisco community of Excelsior.

  “Welcome back, Jed,” Lil called from her porch. “Got your mail here. I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll catch up.”

  “Be right over, Lil. Just have to tend to a few things.” Jed didn’t feel too jet-lagged. Probably get hit with it later, he thought, while inspecting the dells of ferns, roses, and red rhododendrons that flourished in his yard. It might not be like the stately manicured lawns of Crocker Amazon but it was just fine for him.

  An avowed bachelor, Jed loved meeting people from around the globe who marveled at San Francisco as he ferried them up and down its rolling hills. He was rewarded with countless names and addresses of people to visit in nearly every country in the world. He’d always thank them. “I’m savin’ my pennies, so when I retire I’ll come see your town.” Jed had always been frugal. The first thing he did when he bought his house all those years ago was build a very large garage in his rear yard. He rented it to people to store vehicles. He’d had all types of clients. Collectors, bikers, racers, enthusiasts who restored classics. He rolled the income into accounts that yielded nice returns.

  He whistled as he strode along his tiled walkway to his garage. In recent years it was generating $400 monthly, allowing him to travel in style. He’d have to rent it out again. His last tenant had assured him he’d have his vehicle out by the time Jed returned from Europe.

  “Let’s just see how much of a cleanup job we’ve got here, Percy,” he said to the calico cat threading around his ankles.

  Jed shaded his eyes to peer through the barred window, not understanding what he saw inside. What the heck was that?

  “What’s going on?” Jed grimaced, then scratched his head. He looked again, as if a second glance would have a different result.

  Strange. The young fella had guaranteed he’d be out. Everything would be gone by the time he got back so he could rent it out. Even paid cash up front, which was the only reason he decided to let the guy have a two-month deal. He’d usually insisted on a six-month minimum.

  Jed had gotten a weird read off the guy, with his beard and tattoos. He didn’t really like how he’d bring a couple of friends around to sit in the garage and talk long into the night. But they kept to themselves. If there’s one thing Jed had learned, you can’t judge people by their appearance. He shook his head. He’d have to call the guy to see what his plans were.

  Before visiting Lil, Jed got her gift from his house. A painting he bought from a Parisian artist who produced street scenes near the Seine.

  “This is for you, Lil, for watching my place and taking care of Percy.”

  “I love it. Thank you so much, Jed.”

  Lil draped the canvas over a wicker chair to admire it while she poured tea, passed him a bundle of mail, then began updating him on community gossip. Jed nodded politely, not really caring who had a hip replacement or a pacemaker installed. He sipped his tea, nodding for what he thought was sufficient time before he indicated the stack of Chronicles she’d saved for him in the box in the corner of her porch. Jed was an avid newspaper reader.

  “Any big local stories while I was gone, Lil?”

  “Some stink over a city contract scandal. And the Forty-niners gave a fortune to some player. It’s beyond my understanding what professional athletes earn these days.”

  “So pretty quiet then?”

  “Mmm.” She caught herself in mid-swallow. “Oh, terrible, dreadful armed robbery at a jewelry store a few days ago.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Richmond District. A big story actually. The police are still looking for the robbers. A police officer was shot dead, an accomplice too. Murdered in the street. A woman customer was taken hostage. Might be linked to another woman murdered in Death Valley."

  “Wow! I’ll have to read that one.”

  Lil’s phone rang. “Excuse me, Jed. I’m trying to make an appointment with a specialist for my arthritis. It’s in the papers there.”

  She went inside to take the call. Jed set his teacup aside and began scanning the papers. He didn’t have to go far into them to catch up on the jewelry store case. Most of the articles were on the front page.

  It was an engrossing story, Jed thought, flipping past the headlines and photos backward from the most recent item. Unbelievable. Like some kind of thriller movie. Sensational million-dollar heist, deadly shootout on the streets in broad daylight, corpse in the desert, a San Francisco businesswoman abducted, a national dragnet for the unknown suspects.

  “Good Lord!”

  Jed’s blood chilled the way it did when he had almost lost control of a Powell car one foggy winter near Mason and California. All the spit vanished from his mouth. He was staring into the eyes of the young man who’d rented his garage. His color photo was on the front page, identifying him as the robbery suspect killed at the scene.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Jed stood. Unable to take his eyes from the photo.

  “Lil! Damn! Lil, I need your phone. I gotta call the police!” />
  FORTY-FOUR

  “You said you’d have something to us last night. It’s now mid-morning. What’s the holdup?” Sydowski said into the phone.

  At the desk next to him, Turgeon had finished talking to Los Angeles County on a tip that was shaping up to be nothing. Not quite accustomed to her new pancake hip holster, she shifted uncomfortably.

  “Right,” Sydowski said. “Just be damned sure you alert us the second you’ve got something.” He hung up, removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, then turned to Turgeon.

  “Linda, somewhere there has to be a trace, a latent, something to identify these guys. I can’t believe it’s taking us this long to get a lock.” He shuffled his reports, then reached for his coffee. “Anything from LA?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you call CDC and Sacramento again? They must have something on little Jorge Merida’s prison friends.”

  “They’re working on it.”

  “The FBI or our robbery guys determine who their buyer is?”

  “Not yet. They figure it’s gone deep underground because of all the attention on the heist.”

  “You don’t pull off something like this without having a buyer lined up.”

  “Walt. You’ve had the lead on over four hundred homicides, you know that sooner or later it’ll break. We’re on the edge of something.”

  Sydowski shoved his glasses into his pocket, folded his big arms and stared at nothing. “I know the profiler has his theories, but this thing makes no sense, Linda. Why take her?”

  “Insurance?”

  “For what? You take a hostage if you’re trapped in a standoff. They’re your shields, your bargaining chips. These guys got away.”

  “Ransom? She’s a businesswoman. Reed’s got some profile.”

  “But we haven’t had a single demand. And why make Addison’s murder look like Ann Reed’s?”

  “Throw us off. Buy time. It was a quick discovery. It could’ve been weeks or months before the Death Valley find.”

  “Why not let Ann Reed go from the outset? It’s easier to travel without her. It’s better to travel without her.”